"

"I want to see your skipper."

"Well, you can't," declared Shaw, viciously. "He's turned in for the
night."

"He expects me," said Carter, stamping his foot. "I've got to tell him
what happened."

"Don't you fret yourself, young man," said Shaw in a superior manner;
"he knows all about it."

They stood suddenly silent in the dark. Carter seemed at a loss what to
do. Shaw, though surprised by it, enjoyed the effect he had produced.

"Damn me, if I did not think so," murmured Carter to himself; then
drawling coolly asked--"And perhaps you know, too?"

"What do you think? Think I am a dummy here? I ain't mate of this brig
for nothing."

"No, you are not," said Carter with a certain bitterness of tone.
"People do all kinds of queer things for a living, and I am not
particular myself, but I would think twice before taking your billet."

"What? What do you in-si-nu-ate. My billet? You ain't fit for it, you
yacht-swabbing brass-buttoned imposter."

"What's this? Any of our boats back?" asked Lingard from the poop. "Let
the seacannie in charge come to me at once."

"There's only a message from the yacht," began Shaw, deliberately.

"Yacht! Get the deck lamps along here in the waist! See the ladder
lowered. Bear a hand, serang! Mr. Shaw! Burn the flare up aft. Two of
them! Give light to the yacht's boats that will be coming alongside.
Steward! Where's that steward? Turn him out then."

Bare feet began to patter all round Carter. Shadows glided swiftly.

"Are these flares coming? Where's the quartermaster on duty?" shouted
Lingard in English and Malay. "This way, come here! Put it on a rocket
stick--can't you? Hold over the side--thus! Stand by with the lines for
the boats forward there. Mr. Shaw--we want more light!"

"Aye, aye, sir," called out Shaw, but he did not move, as if dazed by
the vehemence of his commander.

"That's what we want," muttered Carter under his breath. "Imposter! What
do you call yourself?" he said half aloud to Shaw.

The ruddy glare of the flares disclosed Lingard from head to foot,
standing at the break of the poop. His head was bare, his face, crudely
lighted, had a fierce and changing expression in the sway of flames.

"What can be his game?" thought Carter, impressed by the powerful
and wild aspect of that figure. "He's changed somehow since I saw him
first," he reflected. It struck him the change was serious, not exactly
for the worse, perhaps--and yet. . . . Lingard smiled